The Last Temptation of the Ringbearer
by Tulip Proudfoot
Summary: Why did Frodo accept the Ring's final temptation on the slopes of Mt. Doom?


Title: The Final Temptation of the Ringbearer Rating: PG Author: Tulip Proudfoot  
  
"Hand him down to me, Gandalf!" Aragorn cried into the swirling wind and dust as he sprinted to the giant eagle. He had to shout to make his powerful voice heard above the clash of arms and cries of the surrounding battle. "Imrahil! Get the other one!" Aragorn reached up and took what appeared to be a small bundle of filthy black orc rags from the White Wizard's arms. But the bundle was splashed with crimson blood. A weak cough came from the bundle as it lay near-motionless in Aragorn's arms.  
  
Prince Imrahil also had a filthy bundle cradled in his arms, collected from the back of another of the giant eagles of the Northern Misty Mountains.  
  
With a flash the wizard dismounted from his avian charge. Freed from their burdens, the great birds vaulted into the soot-filled skies to continue in the on-going battle.  
  
"Quickly, Aragorn, lest we loose them both!" Gandalf cried. The hobbits were laid side by side on the cluttered battleground.  
  
"Where is the blood coming from?" Aragorn shouted, trying to locate the source of the stain.  
  
"His right hand," the Wizard replied. Gandalf uncovered the rags to reveal a gaunt hand missing a finger. It was Frodo. Aragorn could hardly believe this pitiful collection of bones stretched over ashen skin was the same fair and cheerful hobbit he knew from the Shire. Explanations would have to wait. Time was running out for the hobbits.  
  
Imrahil attended the other hobbit. "You! Soldier! Bring me your water bottle!" he commanded the nearest armored combatant. "Bring more water and cloths, and hurry for the love you bear your King!" The soldier handed over his flagon then sped off to bring the items as quickly as he was able.  
  
Aragorn tore strips of cloth from his under tunic and bound Frodo's wounded hand. Gandalf tended Sam's bloody head wound. Imrahil dampened a strip of cloth from his own royal swan banner, using it to wipe the clotted blood and black soot from Sam's face and lips.  
  
Aragorn got out his own water flagon as he moved to raise Frodo's head. He dribbled the precious water over Frodo's cracked and ashen lips, encouraging the wounded hobbit to take a drop of the life-giving moisture. The Ringbearer did not stir.  
  
"No! Look out! He'll attack!" Sam suddenly cried out in his delirium. Gandalf gathered the struggling hobbit into this arms to keep Sam from injuring himself even more.  
  
"Samwise, calm down," the elderly wizard crooned. "You are safe now. Frodo is safe. Here. Drink this." He put the soldier's flagon to Sam's parched lips. Sam gulped down the water and began to cough. Each spasm brought up frothy pink and black mucus. Gandalf's white robe quickly became stained with Sam's blood.  
  
"Aragorn! I need you here now!" Gandalf cried. Imrahil went to Frodo's side as the King rushed to Sam.  
  
Sam struggled to breathe. Breathing was getting harder and harder to do. He couldn't get any air! He was going under! Drowning again! Drowning in ashes!  
  
"Sleep, Samwise Gamgee. Sleep."  
  
Sam could hear a comforting voice from far, far away.  
  
"Sleep. Rest. Sleep." He could resist no longer. Sam knew no more.  
  
Aragorn released Sam. "Take him to the healer's tents and tend to him as you would to me," he commanded the soldiers who had gathered around their captains. "I shall come tend to him myself as time allows." The soldier whose water flagon Imrahil had confiscated returned with water, cloths, and two stretchers. Sam was quickly loaded into one and carried off the battlefield.  
  
Gandalf and Aragorn joined Imrahil at Frodo's side.  
  
"I could not get him to take any water," Imrahil sighed. Frodo coughed weakly.  
  
Gandalf placed his hands over Frodo's heart. "He is fading. I may have arrived too late. I fear he may have contested the will of Sauron by himself and cannot come back from that dark pit of despair."  
  
"Let me try," Aragorn softly said. "I, too, have struggled alone against the Eye. I might be able to reach him, if there is yet time. And if his strength holds a little longer."  
  
Aragorn sat cross-legged upon the ground. Imrahil placed the unconscious hobbit into the King's arms. Frodo's head lolled against Aragorn's armored chest. The hobbit struggled for each breath; weakly coughing up the same blood and ash mixture as Sam. Gandalf placed his hands once again upon Frodo's chest, closed his eyes, and started chanting in a tongue Imrahil did not recognize. The sounds of the battle continued on, but all ears were focused upon one small hobbit's struggle to breathe.  
  
After a few minutes, the Prince noticed that Frodo's breathing had synchronized with Aragorn's, and that the wounded hand had stopped bleeding. In another minute, the coughing stopped. Aragorn and Frodo opened their eyes simultaneously. Frodo stared off into space, unresponsive to any movement or sound; his normally beautiful blue eyes bloodshot and clouded.  
  
"Try to give him some water now," Aragorn whispered to Imrahil. The Prince unstopped the flagon and poured the liquid across Frodo's lips. At first he did not respond. But at the second attempt he closed his eyes and swallowed. Frodo murmured something, then slipped in total unconsciousness.  
  
"What did he say?" Imrahil asked.  
  
Aragorn looked with concern to Gandalf.  
  
"He asked me to let him die."  
  
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He became aware that he was aware only because of his overwhelming need to take in air. He involuntarily rolled over onto his left side and struggled to breathe between fits of unbearably painful coughing. It was as if his lungs were on fire! A cool hand touched his naked feverish side, helping him steady himself as he fought to breathe. He was drowning in brimstone. Burning from the inside out.  
  
A bowl of steaming water appeared near his face and a towel was draped over his head. Something wet was coming out of his mouth as he retched and coughed. The taste of iron and ashes. The unfocused sight of frothy blood and black tar bubbling out of his mouth. It was so hard to breathe. So hard. But there was something in the steaming bowl which was comforting. He recognized the crushed herbs floating in the water from somewhere in his dim past. But he couldn't stop the coughing to form a clear idea of where or when he had experienced it. Wasn't it supposed to smell good? He couldn't smell or taste anything except ashes and blood.  
  
The large, cool hand stirred the contents of the bowl. A flowering of comfort swept over him and the coughing subsided. He could breathe a bit easier now even though his ribs hurt. The hand dipped a cloth into the bowl and brought its cooling comfort to his flushed neck and chest. It wiped away the foul bloody foam from his lips.  
  
"Here now," the Hand said, "try to suck some moisture out of this." A sponge with cool water was placed on his cracked lips. He managed to swallow a mouthful of blessed water. So sweet. So pure. He had never tasted anything so cool and refreshing in his life.  
  
The Hand helped him roll from his fetal position onto his back again. Something sticky and wet was on his back. But it felt good. He thought he could see a gauzy white tent being repositioned, and another bowl of the herbed water being brought in by the Hand. But his mind drifted away into the numbing comfort of forgetfulness.  
  
------------------------------  
  
He became aware that he was aware only because of the unbearable thirst. Yes, he was terribly thirsty. He had been thirsty for weeks. Months. Years. But something else was wrong. His eyes. He couldn't open his eyes. Something was covering them. Perhaps they had blindfolded him again? Or perhaps the others had put out his eyes this time. He could feel someone doing something to his right hand. It was quite painful, but not as painful as the thirst. He could not speak for the thirst.  
  
He tried to reclaim his right hand but it was held down somehow. However, he could move his left hand. He struggled to lift his heavy arm up to remove whatever it was which was making him blind. The Hand was back again, restraining his movement. He was so weak with the overpowering thirst that it took no more than a gentle touch to his left hand to still its movement. He tried to move his head, his legs, anything.  
  
"Quiet now. Don't struggle so. We are only trying to help you."  
  
He opened his mouth to speak, but his tongue was too swollen to translate the words from his mind. "Water" came out as a croak. The voice of ashes. But the Hand must have sensed his dire need. A leather flask magically nudged against his cracked lips, and precious, sweet water trickled into his parched mouth. At first he could not swallow. The life-giving liquid dribbled out of his mouth and down across his neck. He would have cried for the sheer wastefulness of the Hand, if only he had tears. If only he still had eyes. It was torture. They were torturing him again.  
  
But upon the second try, a small amount of liquid worked its way around his parched tongue and down into his mouth. He tried to swallow. The unexpected water caused an immediate reaction.  
  
Once again he was doubled over in agony as his lungs involuntarily tried to expel the long-denied moisture. The Hand steadied him again until the coughing fit was past. Something had fallen away from his eyes, but he could not bring himself to open them yet. At least he still had eyes. The Hand helped him regain his former position. The flask was once again set to his cracked lips. This time the water made it past the tongue and down the correct pipe. He could swallow again. He took another drink. And another. But the Hand took the flask away.  
  
"Not too fast. Easy now. You are doing well."  
  
But he heard no more.  
  
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He became aware that he was aware only because someone was touching him. Running a wet cloth over his face. It felt so good. He had been on fire for so long. So long. He thought he could hear voices, but was not certain if it was a nightmare or not. So many of his nightmares had been true. He was afraid to open his eyes.  
  
"I think he is coming around again, m'lord."  
  
Something or someone sat down next to him. He decided to open his heavy eyelids. The blazing white image swam before his feverish eyes. At first he could not focus on what was sitting so close to him, so he tried looking up instead. There was fabric where the sky should have been. He became aware that he was lying on soft pillows and covered with fresh sheets. Where was the mountain? Where were the fires? Where were the ashes and fumes and stones? Where was the thunder of crashing towers and collapsing earthen works? The hideous shriek of the Nazgul? The stench of poisoned air? He heard nothing except his own raspy breathing and the sound of a gentle breeze blowing through leaves. Leaves? There were no trees in Mordor. Where was he? Was he alone? Where was ? .. Where was ...  
  
"Sam!" Frodo tried to cry out.  
  
"Shush. Calm down. Sam is nearby in the next cot over. You don't want to awaken him, now do you?"  
  
Frodo turned his face to see the last person in Middle Earth he expected - Gandalf. But a different Gandalf. This wizard was white, not grey. Frodo's mouth gaped open in surprise. His mind wanted to shut down again in the confusion of the moment. It would be so easy to do. And he was so tired. But he had to know. He had to find out.  
  
"Am I dead then?"  
  
Gandalf chucked and patted him on the arm. "No, my dearest hobbit. You are very much alive, thanks to the heroics of Gwaihir, Lord of the Eagles, and the healing talents of the King of Gondor. Oh yes, and we must never discount the amazing tenacity of hobbits to hang onto life and hope after all else has turned to despair."  
  
Frodo looked askance at the wizard sitting next to him. He looked and spoke like Gandalf, but was somehow much changed. Perhaps this was yet another ploy of the Enemy. "But how can you be Gandalf?" he asked. "I saw you fall in Moria. Who are you, really?"  
  
The smile faded from the wizard's face. It was as if the sun had been eclipsed. The hobbit was much changed since his carefree days at Bag End. It signaled a shocking loss of innocence to the Wizard. But such was the price of the triumph. It was the price they all had to pay. "Yes, I am Gandalf. But I am Gandalf the White. Gandalf the Grey fell in Moria. I battled the Balrog of Morgoth until we both were slain upon Caradhras. But my work was not yet accomplished. I was sent back as you see me now. To finish my task."  
  
He smiled and the clouds were lifted from the sun. "But you, my dearest hobbit. You have accomplished what even the very wise had assumed to be impossible. For the Dark Lord is overthrown and his power over Middle Earth is destroyed." Then Gandalf laughed. A laughter born of shear delight and love.  
  
"Where am I?" Frodo whispered.  
  
"You are in Ithilien, in the keeping of the King," Gandalf replied.  
  
"M'Lord Mithrandir?" a soft feminine voice whispered, "the King said the Ringbearers were to be given food and drink as soon as they were aware." The voice of the Hand.  
  
Gandalf turned to the middle-aged Gondorian woman and smiled. "You are quite right my dear. My apologies to you and to the Ringbearer for keeping you from your duties. An old man can prattle on if not gently reminded otherwise." Gandalf got off the bed and moved out of the way of the lady, who approached Frodo. She lay one soft white hand on his right shoulder.  
  
"Are you able to sit up, m'lord?" she asked.  
  
Frodo nodded. He struggled to raise himself up in bed, but it was terribly difficult. His right hand was swaddled in bandages and he could not put any weight on it. And he noted that he was completely naked. The grey- eyed woman helped him sit up without damage to either his wounded hand or his modesty. Moving from the prone position aggravated his sore chest and he began to cough again. The lady held him upright and gave him a handkerchief soaked in the same herbed water he remembered from earlier. Athalas. That was it. More black mucus emerged from his mouth and he felt dizzy. The lady moved piles of soft pillows behind his back and helped him into a more comfortable position. Frodo coughed again.  
  
"What is wrong with my lungs?" he managed to choke out as the lady handed him a brown leather flagon of water.  
  
"We could not reach you and Samwise before you breathed in some of the poisonous fumes of the mountain," Gandalf said. "You were both covered in ashes by the time we found you. Only Gwaihir's eagle eyes could discern your hobbit shapes amidst the rocks and fires. A few more minutes and you would have been dead."  
  
The healer took the water flagon from Frodo's hand and placed it on a small table beside the cot. She returned with a bowl and a spoon.  
  
"What is that?" Frodo asked.  
  
"You cannot smell it?" she asked in surprise. She sat down on the bed next to Frodo and started gently stirring the bowl's contents. "Can you smell the athalas?"  
  
"No," Frodo answered. "I cannot seem to smell anything at all."  
  
"Probably because of the ashes you inhaled," Gandalf replied.  
  
"This is a little white bread soaked in fresh milk and honey," the healer said. "It is time you started back on solid food, your lordship." She brought the laden wooden spoon to his mouth.  
  
"Frodo," he mumbled between spoonfuls. "My name is Frodo Baggins, please."  
  
"Yes, m'lord," the healer replied, waiting for him to swallow before presenting him with another spoonful. Frodo attempted to take the spoon from her hand, using his good left hand.  
  
"Please, I can do this myself, I do believe," he said. She handed him the spoon and placed the bowl in his lap. "What is your name, my lady, if I may ask?"  
  
"You may ask me anything, m'lord," came the reply. "I am called Maywyn Thelmasdoiter." She placed a towel across his naked chest.  
  
"Many thanks, Maywyn Thelmasdoiter," Frodo politely replied. He was slow and awkward at feeding himself, but it was less embarrassing than being spoon-fed like a baby. Maywyn went back over to Sam's cot, uncovered his feet, and started rubbing a salve on them. Gandalf settled into a chair between the two sickbeds and lighted his long-stemmed pipe. He blew white and blue smoke rings as Frodo slowly chewed the simple bread pudding.  
  
"No smoking inside the tent, please," Maywyn quietly admonished the wizard. Gandalf rolled his eyes, but obediently tapped out his pipe and put it away. He shrugged at Frodo.  
  
In the quiet Frodo could hear Sam's labored breathing as he slept. Frodo noted that someone had evidently given them both a bath while they were unconscious, as they were both clean yet naked under the sheets. He hoped it was Gandalf and not Maywyn, but feared it was the later.  
  
Frodo set down the little earthenware bowl. He could only manage a couple of mouthfuls of the milk-soaked bread before he had to stop. He could eat no more. He and Sam had gone without proper food and water for so long he found he could only tolerate small helpings of either. Sam stirred in his sleep and moaned. Maywyn stopped applying the salve and went to his head bearing a damp cloth and a clean towel.  
  
Frodo leaned back into the pillows. "Gandalf? How is Sam?"  
  
"He is improving, as are you," the wizard replied. "Sam's lungs were also burned by the ash and flames of the mountain. I think he may have breathed in less than you, or perhaps his constitution is more robust than yours. You lost a lot of blood when you lost your finger. Sam is still coughing up ashes like you are, but he did not have a fever like you when we brought you here. However, the bottom of his feet are burned. He must have walked over some live coals sometime in the last week. It is strange. You do not have the burns he does." Gandalf looked expectantly at Frodo.  
  
Sam was coughing into the towel. Maywyn cradled him in her arms, helping him dispel the blackness into the moist towel.  
  
"He carried me on his back," Frodo whispered. Frodo swallowed hard at the memory. "I had lost all hope and wanted to stay by the Cracks of Doom and die. Be swallowed up by the fire. But Sam wanted out of there. He still had hope." Frodo closed his eyes and rested his hand in his lap. "I gave into Sam's wishes, but I had lost all my strength by the time we escaped Orodruin. Sam carried me the final steps." Frodo's voice broke under the emotional strain.  
  
Gandalf came over and took the bowl and spoon out of Frodo's hands, placing them on the table. "Do you want to tell me what happened?" His voice was low and carried overtones of infinite understanding.  
  
Frodo glanced down at his bandaged right hand. The ring finer was gone. He looked at the kindly wizard's face. It was Gandalf. He was sure it was Gandalf now. A tear escaped his eye. He cleared his throat as the wizard silently handed him the water flagon.  
  
"I did not think I would be able to shed a tear ever again," Frodo sighed. He wiped the tear away with his good left hand and took a long drink from the flagon. Gandalf pulled his chair over to be closer to Frodo's side. Sam's coughing fit subsided and he was again asleep. Frodo could finally see his best friend's face. Sam's head was wrapped in bandages, but his sturdy brown hobbit face was peaceful as he slept.  
  
Frodo closed his eyes and started to speak in a quiet voice. "You were right about Gollum. He was with us most of the journey. Sam and I captured him in the Emyn Muil after he attacked us."  
  
"Gandalf, I tried to help him," Frodo looked at the wizard. "I tried to save him. But the Ring was too great a temptation for Smeagol. In the end, he betrayed us in the tunnels of Cirith Ugol." He stopped and cleared his tight throat.  
  
"We finally made it into Mordor. But the burden of carrying the Ring was wearing me down. It became so heavy. So heavy. It talked to me all the time. Tempting me to give up or trying to get me to put it on. It was consuming my mind and will. Every step closer to the mountain gave it strength and sapped my own. Yet I could not give it up. I could see it before me at all times. Tempting me."  
  
Frodo's voice was bitter with self-recrimination. "I knew it would betray me, yet I wanted to give in to it. I was so weak. I wanted the suffering to end." He sighed. "But Gandalf, I was already lost to it. If Sam had tried to take it from me, I would have killed him. So I tried to put as much distance between Sam and me as I could. I did not want the Ring to push me into killing him. So I talked to him as little as possible. I know it hurt him and it hurt me too, but it was the only way I could go on. At times I could not even look at him; just at the ground. Concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. I could not afford the luxury of friendship or companionship any more. If I could just get to the mountain, it would all end." Gandalf reached out and held Frodo's left hand.  
  
"We ran out of food first," Frodo whispered. "I really did not mind that though. We had been living on nothing except lembas for so long. I had become used to the gnawing in my empty stomach and used it as a distraction from the Ring's whispers. I really could not think about hunger. Food was immaterial. Smeagol was still shadowing us. We could not let our guard down. I could not think about anything except getting to the mountain without getting caught again."  
  
"You were captured and tortured in Mordor, but rescued by Samwise, I take it," Gandalf gently said.  
  
Frodo was startled. "How do you know that?"  
  
Gandalf smiled. "The healer treated some infected whip wounds on your back. And I was presented with your original traveling clothes, including the mithril coat and Sam's small sword, but not Sting or Galadriel's gifts, or any of Sam's clothes. The Enemy offered your things to me as evidence that you had failed in your mission. But they did not show us you, my dear Frodo, nor Sam. And as long as the two of you were free, there was hope."  
  
"Hope," Frodo sighed. "That should be Sam's middle name. Sam insisted I eat the lembas until there was nothing left. But then we ran out of water. We had only one water bottle for the two of us, and water is non-existent inside Mordor. The lack of water was more difficult." Frodo stopped and shifted position slightly. He took another long draught from the flagon. "I do not think I shall ever get enough clean water to drink," he sighed. "I know Sam dreamed of beer. But water will always be my drink of choice."  
  
Sam started coughing again. Maywyn moved the bowl of fragrant water to Sam's side and started setting up a tent over his head. She and Sam disappeared beneath the white gauze fabric, leaving Frodo and Gandalf to their relative privacy.  
  
"My dearest Frodo," Gandalf said, "you do not have to go into great detail or tell me everything right now. You are just starting your recovery and Mistress Maywyn will chastise me greatly if I keep her charges up too long or overly tax them."  
  
Frodo slid down into the covers and slipped the water flagon under his pillow. "I am tired. But can you tell me if Sam is going to be all right?" Frodo looked over to his friend's cot. The healer had finished setting up the small inhalation tent which blocked Frodo from seeing Sam's face.  
  
"Your companion also suffers from the black breath," the healer said as she disposed of the soiled towels. "And the burns on his feet must be quite painful. We are keeping him lightly sedated so that he does not suffer needlessly. He may not remember much which has occurred this past week. But he is recovering quickly." She turned to Frodo. "I have never met a periannath before, your lordship. Do all your people enjoy such remarkable recuperative powers?"  
  
Frodo looked in confusion at Gandalf. "Periannath?"  
  
"The Gondorian word for hobbits," the wizard explained.  
  
"My lady," Frodo addressed the healer, "I cannot speak for all my people, nor do I have any rod against which to measure a hobbit's recuperative powers, save the Elves which I have met. And one cannot compare mortals to immortals. So I cannot answer your question. I do apologize."  
  
"You are a courteous race simply judging from your reply," Maywyn smiled. "But could I talk you into eating a bit more for me before you retire?"  
  
"I am sorry, but I do not believe I could." Frodo also could not stifle a large yawn.  
  
Maywyn silently laughed and went to remove the extra pillows. She discovered the hidden water flagon. "May I take this, m'lord?"  
  
Frodo blushed at her discovery. "May I . May I keep it nearby, please? I would sleep easier if I knew where some water was. I am sorry, but. well."  
  
"Nay, m'lord," Maywyn interrupted as she tucked the flagon back beneath his pillow. "You need not explain. It is logical and a small thing to ask."  
  
She moved one of the extra pillows so that it was under his bandaged right hand, tucked the covers around his slim form, and moved over to tend to Sam. Frodo fell asleep with his left hand clutching the flagon's leather strap.  
  
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He became aware that he was aware for reasons unknown. It was dark. A small oil lamp emitted a feeble light, casting fantastical shadows up onto the inside ceiling of the tent. The moon cast its own shadows of tree branches and leaves against the tent's white cotton roof. Both sets of shadows wavered and twisted into swirling demons without substance or clearly definable form. Grey against silver in the darkness.  
  
"Shift and shadow, we must be," Frodo murmured.  
  
"That sounds more like Gollum than you," a voice quietly replied.  
  
Frodo looked to his left. Gandalf sat in a chair wrapped in a grey cloak, quietly smoking his pipe and watching the Ringbearer. Frodo noticed he had been covered with a dark quilt of some kind. Evidently to ward off the night chills. Sam was snoring.  
  
"Yes, Smeagol said that whilst we were in the Dead Marshes," he replied. "It is true, you know. We are nothing more than shift and shadow in this world, only to fade in the end." He was feeling extremely melancholy. His missing ring finger ached and stung. He could feel that he was running a fever. His eyelids were hot. He longed for the Ring, but it was to be forever denied him.  
  
"We are more than shadow and shift," the wizard softly replied. "What troubles your heart, my friend?"  
  
Frodo could not answer at first. He gazed at the ceiling of the tent, looking through a small opening and out into the star-filled inkiness beyond. So vast. So lonely. So lonely..  
  
He finally replied. "You should have left me on the mountain, you know. You should not have risked yourself for me like that. My task was done. It was over. I could have ended it there and then. A clean ending to the tale. The Ring is destroyed. The Ringbearer dies. All weep at the loss of the Ringbearer, but praise his unselfish actions. The King is crowned and everyone lives happily ever after. The End. But no. You had to rescue me, and now the truth will be known."  
  
"And what truth is that, Frodo Baggins?" Gandalf impassively asked.  
  
"I failed," Frodo addressed the shadows. "I failed at the very end. All I had to do was to drop it over the edge. But I could not bring myself to destroy the Ring. I was too weak. I gave into its temptations at the very last moment. I finally harkened to its voice and did what it wanted me to do. I put the Ring on and claimed it for myself. I failed Elrond. I failed you. I failed Sam. I failed everyone."  
  
"You may have faltered in the final moment, but your mission succeeded, or we would not be holding this conversation in the dark," the wizard quietly stated. "If you did not throw the Ring into the fire, who did?"  
  
"Gollum," came the reply. "He had tracked us all the way inside the mountain before he realized what we planned on doing. But he had sworn an oath by the Ring to not harm is master lest he be thrown into the Fire himself. When he attacked me and bit off my finger, he broke his oath, and the Ring held him to his bond. He fell into the Fire, taking the Precious with him."  
  
"Ah," Gandalf muttered. "So the kindness of Bilbo was the pivotal force for the ultimate good. But Frodo, your own kindness towards Smeagol also contributed to the good of all. If you had not shown him mercy this quest would have ended in failure. It is your own unselfishness which set up the conditions for success, even if it was not you personally who cast the Ring back into the Fire."  
  
"But it was I, personally, who did fail at the end," Frodo insisted. "I gave in to it."  
  
"And what did it tempt you with?"  
  
Frodo swallowed the sudden lump which had come to his sore throat. "It tempted me with a lot of different things throughout the journey. At first it tempted me with the things I expected: power; wealth; immortality. But then the Ring became more subtle with its temptations as it learned more about me over time. The ability to undo all the wrongs done to the world. To raise my parents from the dead and relive my life in the Shire the way it was supposed to be. To undo all my hurts. As the journey went on and on, and my strength began to fail, it renewed its efforts on me. It tortured me. Becoming unbearable heavy and then suddenly light. Deceiving what my eyes saw. What my ears heard. I fought it for so long. So long. No sleep. I was so tired. So lonely. So alone. So hungry. So thirsty. I think it was the thirst which finally broke me."  
  
Frodo stopped speaking. Gandalf did not make a sound. They both waited until Frodo could compose himself and continue. The only sounds were the chirping of night crickets, the gurgle of a nearby running stream, and Sam's quiet snores.  
  
"The last temptation was too much for me," Frodo whispered into the velvet of the night. "I gave in."  
  
"What did it offer you?" Gandalf barely uttered the question.  
  
"Death."  
  
Gandalf could not reply.  
  
Frodo sighed. "And even as I yielded to it and put it on, I knew it had lied. It said my death would be swift and painless. It promised me that if I were to put it on at the Cracks of Doom, my frail form could not bear its glory and I would be instantly consumed. But it lied. I was trapped in the Wheel of Fire. Exposed to the Eye of Sauron. The Nazgul were in my mind, racing to take my physical form to our master for eternal torment. And the Ring laughed at its deception. I was lost. It would never kill me."  
  
"And now you are here," Gandalf said.  
  
"Yes. And now I am here," Frodo answered back. "Will I never be allowed to die? Will I ever find peace?"  
  
"Peace may be found in life as well as death," the wizard stated. "Even if your body and will and mind failed you, your spirit was true. Find peace in life, Frodo Baggins. Choose to live again. The choice is yours to make. If you choose to live, there will be painful times. And the burden you bore will forever be carried on your body and in your mind. But burdens become lighter by sharing their loads. You are not alone unless you choose that path. We are here for you."  
  
Frodo could not speak. The confession had wrung out what little strength he had. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.  
  
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He became aware that he was aware because he could hear familiar voices. He did not move. He was comfortable as he lay; his left hand up above his head and the fingers twinned about the leather strap leading to a full water bottle. His bandaged right hand atop a soft pillow. The sound of his two best friends in the world softly talking.  
  
"Well, Master Samwise, how do you feel?" Frodo recognized the voice as Gandalf's.  
  
"How do I feel?" he heard Sam reply. "I feel, I feel - like spring after winter, and sun on the leaves; like trumpets and harps and all the songs I have ever heard!"  
  
Frodo tried hard to keep his face neutral and not give Sam a clue that he was awake. It was extremely difficult to do. He wanted to smile and shout for joy at hearing his friend's clear voice again. But he also wanted to savor the moment. To file it away in his memory for future tales around the fires on cold winter's eves. To hear Sam wax poetic and explain to the Wise what true joy was.  
  
"But how's Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked. "Isn't it a shame about his poor hand? But I hope he's all right otherwise."  
  
Frodo could resist no longer. He opened his eyes, yawned and smiled. "Yes, I am all right otherwise." He sat up and luxuriated in a huge stretch. "I fell asleep again waiting for you, Sam . you sleepyhead." Frodo took a long drink from the flagon and offered it to his companion.  
  
"No thank you, Mr. Frodo," Sam replied. "I never thought I would say this again, but I think I've had enough water for the day. In fact, if you don't mind too terrible much, Mr. Gandalf, sir, would you mind stepping outside so I could, um . well .um . get rid of some water?"  
  
Frodo and Gandalf both laughed at Sam's predicament. The Wizard stood to leave. "Your chamber pot is under the cot, Master Gamgee," he chuckled. "Though I do not think this part of your adventures is going to make it into the stories and songs. And such tales shall be made! The bards are already at work on them. You are to meet the King shortly. He awaits you." The wizard turned to leave.  
  
Frodo arrested his leaving by grabbing the wizard's sleeve. "Gandalf. In our state, I do not think Sam and I would mind just about anything right now. But please, all levity aside, are there some clothes we can wear? I would prefer to meet a King with at least some clothes on, although I have endured far worse than the loss of my dignity recently."  
  
"Well, the King has seen both of you in your, a hmmm, 'natural' states," Gandalf laughed.  
  
"Yes, what shall we wear?" Sam wrapped himself in a sheet and hobbled out of bed, looking for the chamber pot. "King? What King? Who is he?"  
  
"The King of Gondor and Lord of the Western Lands," said Gandalf, reaching under Sam's cot and retrieving the much-prized pot. "The King awaits you. that is . after you've taken care of the necessities." He chuckled. "Your clothes are at the foot of your cot."  
  
"These old orc rags?" Sam asked. He picked up his old and tattered clothes. They had been cleaned, but were definitely worn and threadbare. "You can't go calling on a King in these things, begging your pardon again."  
  
"No silks and linens, nor any armour or heraldry could be more honorable," Gandalf said. "But later I will find some other clothes, perhaps."  
  
"Look, Mr. Gandalf, sir," Sam said, "I would love to sit and argue about fancy clothes with you till the cows come home, but I haven't had the chance to make water in a long, long time. And I am going to enjoy every second of it. So if you don't want to end up witnessing my enjoyment, you best be leaving now. We'll discuss clothes later. All right?" Sam snatched the chamber pot out of the Wizard's hands and started disrobing.  
  
"And it is a joy to see you back to normal, Mister Gamgee," Gandalf laughed and headed out through the tent flaps.  
  
Frodo smiled and settled back into his bedsheets. It was good to be alive after all. 


End file.
